"Well, I was touched by that and I didn't like the man's face, either. They went out. I came down to dinner. While I was waiting in the garden an extraordinary man spoke to me—extraordinary to look at, I mean. Short, fat, red hair—"
"You needn't describe him," Dunbar interrupted, "I know him."
"He came and asked me for a match. He was very polite, and finally invited me to dine with him, his son and daughter-in-law. I accepted. Of course the son and daughter-in-law were the two that I had overheard upstairs. I saw that throughout dinner she was in great distress, and at the end as we were leaving the room I let her know that I had overheard her inadvertently before dinner, and that I was eager to help her if there was any way in which I could do so. We had only a moment, Crispin and his son were close upon us. She was, I suppose, at the end of her endurance and snatched at any chance, so she told me to do this—to find you here and give you that message—that's all—absolutely all."
"The door opened, making both men turn apprehensively. It was only the shabby little waiter with his tray and the whiskies. He set down the glasses, split the soda, and stared at them both as Dunbar paid him.
"Will that be all, gentlemen?" he asked, scratching his ear.
"Everything," said Dunbar abruptly.
"Gentlemen sleeping here?"
"No, we're not. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir." With a little sigh the waiter withdrew. The door closed, and instantly the ferns in the pots, the plush chairs and sofa closed round as though they also wanted to hear.
"It's an extraordinary piece of luck," Dunbar began. Then he hesitated. "But I don't want to bother you with any more of this. It isn't your affair. You've come into it, after all, only by accident——"